


Everyone's a Junkie

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV), Trainspotting (1996)
Genre: Canon-typical Cursing, Canonical Character Death (mentioned), Crossover, Depression, Drabble, Drug Use (Mentioned), Flashbacks, M/M, Reunions, Rough Sex (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: They look different, but they're still the same men.(OR: Gregson hires a consultant, and Sherlock knows him)





	

Sherlock had forgotten.

He had forgotten who he was, back when his name was Simon Williamson, Sick Boy- with dirty fake bleach blonde hair, and a heavy Scottish accent that was as slurred and unintelligent as his muddied brain. He’d been a cold, cruel mess, barbs of razor-sharp wit and hatred stabbing out at whoever was closest.

He had been thin–and not just _thin,_ he’d been half corpse and half boy, with white skin and heroin veins, battery acid keeping him alive, drugs humming through him and turning the world into a giant colourful movie that he swam through, terrified at the intensity of it all. He’d watched all the Bond films, regurgitated facts and box office hits with dull enthusiasm as his lovers–and there were lovers, too many lovers, even in that shithole circle of friends–ignored him, fucking him harder or sucking him deeper just to get him to _shut the fuck up._

Irene was dead, Moriarty had won, and he had been clueless. He’d met Rents in a club, where the lights were too bright and the music was too loud, and they’d got high together, attracted to one another by a mutual apathy and hopelessness. Then he’d met Spud, Swannie, Begbie, Allison- poor, poor Allison- and Tommy. They didn’t sleep. They could barely speak. They were dirty and violent and angry and desperate, willing to do terrible things in the name of apathy and addiction. They stole. They lied. They watched it happen, they participated.

Life had been bad, under that false name, but better than when he was Sherlock Holmes. His father couldn’t find him here, in this wasteland.

He slept with Allison when he was in a better state of mind, gentler with her than he was with Rents. Mark Renton was loving and dumb when he was high, unsure and childish and insecure when he wasn’t. Well, Renton was always insecure. That made it easier to use him, easier not to feel threatened by him. They fucked during the highs, when the hit was fresh and Swannie’s living room was either empty or full of the dead, when Rents was hungry and fast and violent.

Sherlock had forgotten what it was like, with Rents on top of him, under him. He’d forgotten that circle of friends, had run from them when his child–and Dawn had been his, though he’d tried to deny it–had died from _their_ neglect. The end of the world. Bummed out city. A sink full of piss and shit, and an empty cradle that still smelled like death. Lying facedown, struggling to breathe, as Renton tried to get off by fucking him. It had been painful. It hadn't been enjoyable. Really, it was some kind of sick punishment for them both; mutual perversion and suffering, at the ends of the earth. They'd never kissed. Once, Renton had tried, and Sherlock had hit him, pushing him away hard onto the concrete floor. They'd fought, punching and biting and slapping, until their weak bodies ached too much to stand, and then they'd laid on the dirty mattress, shaking.

Now, Sherlock stood in the doorway to Captain Gregson’s office, and a man was before him. A beard, a suit and tie, but it was him. Mark Renton, reborn. Older. Newer. Barely recognisable- but Sherlock did recognise him, and his mouth went dry, heart speeding up.

Renton, this man, this stranger, stared. His eyes were wide, and Sherlock got a flash of memory, a shock as he remembered that brown staring down at him, all pupil and no iris.

“…Simon?”

Renton was being polite. He could’ve said, ‘Sick Boy’, or, ‘the fuck you doin’ here ya daft cunt?’ Sherlock remembered the way Renton had slurred and cursed, filthy and violent like the rest of them, and he wondered who this stranger was, what had happened to give such an extreme junkie a new lease of life. The clothes he wore spoke of money.

Then again, Sherlock supposed, the clothes he wore also spoke of money, too.

They were still staring at each other. In Sherlock’s periphery, Gregson slowly stood.

“I… see you two have met…?” He hazarded slowly, confused.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, held out his hand. Kept his fingers from shaking. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Renton stared. “Sher _what?”_

“My name,” Sherlock withdrew his hand. “, is Sherlock Holmes. That has always been my name.”

Renton was still, disbelief etched all over his face. Slowly, Sherlock watched as the realisation dawned on his face; he’d only known Sick Boy for a year or so, after all. No knowing where he’d come from, before, or where he’d disappeared to, after.

“You lying piece of…” He trailed off, grinning suddenly, the mania of his younger years concealed only by a styled beard and fashionable glasses, his Scottish accent as thick and raw as Sherlock remembered, “You…”

“Alright, enough. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I think you should leave.” Gregson stepped forward, a hand extended, voice calm. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, shaken. He left, and Renton watched him go.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title taken from James' song, Everyone's a Junkie


End file.
